


He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

by zjemciciastko



Category: Motorcycling RPF
Genre: Angst, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Season 2018, au-ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-07-08 03:35:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15922058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjemciciastko/pseuds/zjemciciastko
Summary: ("Hanahaki Disease (花吐き病 (Japanese); 하나하키병 (Korean); 花吐病 (Chinese)) is a disease in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings (romantic love only; strong friendship is not enough), or when the victim dies. It can be cured through surgical removal, but when the infection is removed, the victim's romantic feelings for their love also disappear.")One day, Marc starts coughing up yellow flowers.





	1. Chapter 1

It starts soon after the race in Argentina.

In the begging, it’s only a small pressure in his chest, nothing significant enough to alert him that something might be wrong, that something might not be how it should. Aside from him fucking things up once again, this time surely for good.

What little hope he had for them _maybe, actually, one day…_ shatters just like his heart does, breaking into a million of tiny pieces, the shards splattering around, and the pain doesn’t affect only his mind, because he knows this time _it’s the end,_ no more tries. It’s also physical, an ache in his ribcage that resembles what Marc can only describe as his insides being crushed, squeezed, cutting the oxygen and leaving him panting desperately for air. 

The pressure, not lessening, not letting go, is something he blames on the stress, on those emotions that force the tears to spill from his eyes, adding to the pile of used tissues, growing in size every few minutes. Marc wipes his nose, sniffling, and crushes the cellulose within his hands, fingers trembling and cold in spite of the warm temperature of the air. He replays the events over and over again, his every move, the decisions that led him to _this,_ and it’s only the tightness of his throat that stops the wail that’s trying to escape, _because this time he’s done it for good._

He didn’t hope for much, never, but when they had reconciled for the first time (His heart breaking must be a recurring theme, as it had happened after that first incident, too.), he thought that was the worst that could’ve happened, that nothing could surpass it. Oh how wrong he was. 

And now he’s left to deal with the consequences, with no one but himself to put the blame on and no one to help him repair what has transformed from an amicably professional bond to an all out war again. 

He might’ve been through it once in the past, but nothing could’ve prepared him for going through this suffering one more time. The physical pain is probably even stronger now than it was then, because this time he _deserves it,_ deserves the nausea, the stomach filled with lead, the headache so severe he needs to fight the dizziness it comes with. And it’s all his own fault. 

It only gets worse when Marc hears _his_ words, and he needs to press both hands to his mouth not to empty the content of his stomach right on his own shoes. 

During the interviews, he keeps his hands under to table, so that no one notices the barely controllable shakiness, and he needs to practice the breathing exercises he’s never been particularly fond of, but his inhales and exhales could hardly be more irregular than they are now. 

Somehow, he goes through it all without breaking down, and, in some kind of twisted way, maybe he could even call it a success. If stopping himself from sobbing uncontrollably in front of the cameras, all eyes on him, could ever be called that. He goes back to his motorhome using the roundabout way, hyperaware not to let anyone spot him between the stacks of tyres and the team trucks, the door closing behind him before Alex finishes all the words in the sentence he tried to make.

The weight never leaves from his chest, but Marc refuses to acknowledge it, brushing it off and focusing what little energy he has left on getting sleep, hoping it will be filled with dreams and not nightmares. 

_It can only be better from now on. It can’t get any worse._

(Maybe if he repeats those words enough times, it will become true.)

*

The thing is, it’s not getting any better.

He’s managed to calm down, or at least he likes to think so, but whenever there’s a mention of Valentino’s name reaching his ears or that yellow _46_ somewhere in his field of vision, it’s almost as if the air supplied to his lungs wasn’t enough, as if he needed more and couldn’t get it, gasping without achieving any effect.

But maybe not getting better would be something he could deal with, without _too much_ trouble. Unlike getting worse, which seems to be his case. 

Marc can’t recall when it starts. It might be after one of the press conferences, probably. Both of them, he and Valentino, attend pretty much every single one of those, after all, and while it’s not surprising considering their popularity, it’s something that became the only part of the racing weekends he actually _fears._

Over the years, his acting skills have got better, and at the moment he almost prides himself in them, how he can show what he wants and hide what he doesn’t. He manages to get through another round of press, even though it kills him from the inside that now he isn’t even worth throwing a glance at, that he doesn’t deserve even that anymore. But he smiles through it all, giving answers to the questions and never getting out of the role, even though his jaw is tight, just like his chest.

It’s when he sees _her_ that the coughing starts.

He’s not into women, but even he can tell that she’s gorgeous, pretty face on a shapely body, surely a model of some sorts. The ridiculously long legs and skinny silhouette give it away. She’s a guest in Valentino’s garage, Marc notices during one of the free practices when the adjustments to his bike’s setting are being made, one of the cameras catching her and showing on the screen he has in the box, right next to his armchair.

The burning is his airways spreads rapidly, starting in his lungs, going through the bronchi and up to the throat, the thirst, the need to salvage it suddenly enormous. 

Masking the cough, rather badly, Marc answers that he just choked on his own spit, _jajaja,_ when Santi throws him a wary look, but it seems to work. He reaches for the water poured into the can of Red Bull, because sponsorship and all, and drinks it in one go, hoping it’ll miraculously cure the dryness of his throat and mouth.

(It doesn’t.)

* 

He goes on like that for the whole season, his points in the championship getting better and better, but his health getting worse and worse. There’s no point in telling anyone about it, and he gets through the medical check ups every time, somehow, so getting either his family or the team worried is out of the question. He can deal with it on his own. 

It’s only near the end of the year, the autumn in full swing, when, after one of the races, it becomes too much.

Thankfully, he’s alone when it happens, no sign of Alex in sight. It starts with the coughing, again, but he’s already got rather used to it, so it doesn’t bother him too much. This time it’s different, though. The cough quickly transforms into wheezing, the air not going through his respiratory system as smoothly as it should, and the pressure isn’t only squeezing his chest, his ribs feeling as if they’d start digging into his lungs any second. His stomach has also formed a knot, and the amount of saliva in his mouth is rising above regular levels quickly, swallowing it not helping at all.

He kneels in front of the toilet bowl, holding the ridge of it with one hand, using the other to brush away the hair from his sweaty forehead. For a moment, nothing comes out, but the pressure is increasing, and it feels like his body is ready to blow up to get rid of it, the sensation unbearable. He won’t be able to stand it for much longer.

Marc closes his eyes for a second and does the only thing that comes to his mind, sticking two fingers deep in his throat. 

It works, as whatever was stuck in him and refused to go, falls out, the quiet slosh indicating something has made its way to the bowl. He pants, the sounds of retching the only thing he can hear aside from his rushing blood, and then he attempts to put an end to the trembles his limbs broke into. The success is partial, small tremors still present, though it’s enough for him to finally unclench the fists and let the eyelids fall open. 

He reaches out to flush whatever left his mouth, but before he gets to do it, something catches his eye, something that makes him do a double take.

There, floating on the surface of the toilet water, is a yellow flower. 

_What?!_

The pressure is his ribcage is smaller but the one in his head rises dangerously, he’s on the verge of panic, because he just _puked up a fucking flower, and how is that normal, it can’t be normal, it can’t be happening–_

Marc puts a hand on the edge of the sink to push himself up on it since he cannot trust his knees at the moment, that they won’t give out under him. The cold water hitting his face is enough to slow his racing mind, for a moment at least, and he crawls out of the bathroom, falling heavily on top on the bedsheets. 

For some minutes, Marc can’t really tell how many, he stares blankly at the ceiling, one hand gripping the fabric of the shirt covering his chest tightly. He probably should thank Marini _(It had to be him, as if Marc’s life couldn’t be any more of a mess.)_ for dropping out of that podium and making place for Alex, else his little brother wouldn’t have been out at that party, witnessing the pathetic mess that Marc currently is, instead. 

When, body tired and mind fed up with everything, he decides to google what the cure to his symptoms might be and _that fucking flower,_ what it is, he gets the shock of his life. It’s not only an actual illness, throwing up _flowers_ of all things a part of it. No, there’s even more to it actually. Not only reading about the cure forces all the strength to leave him, blood draining from his face, the healthy colour making way for sickly paleness; he also finds out what kind of flower that was, the meaning, described in detail, reigniting his nausea again. 

Particularly, one line of that description stands out.

 _Yellow carnations are a symbol of disappointment and rejection._

And how perfectly it fits what he receives from Valentino all the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't supposed to start any other chaptered story while "Your Mark On My Skin" is still ongoing and look how well it worked out... (Btw, if you read "Your Mark", I'm sorry, but I probably won't be posting this week. Unless a miracle happens... I have the chapter almost ready, but I really don't feel like posting it now would be a good thing. I'll probably get back to it in the future.)
> 
> So, I've wanted to write one of those Hanahaki stories for a while, I started the first draft back in May, but recent events were the push I needed (and at the same time didn't want...) and here it is. And to think there was a time when I couldn't write one angsty sentence, all that angst is their fault :P
> 
> I wonder if anyone still wants to read about those two? If yes, then I hope you liked it. Thank you for reading <3
> 
> Edit: I have so many problems with posting this that it's probably cursed...


	2. Chapter 2

The thought of having to go to another press conference dampens his mood immediately, already low in the first place.

Valentino doesn’t even have to take a look at the sheet of paper he’s been given to know that _he_ will also be a part of it, that the space at the table will be shared by both of them. Always is, no exceptions. And, without a doubt, their chairs will be placed next to each other, another unfunny joke he wishes he didn’t have to endure. 

In the past, before everything went to hell, he’d hardly be able to stop himself from grinning at the prospect, and even repeating the same answers to the same questions didn’t have such a bad ring to it, if it meant a few minutes of talking with Marc, hushed voices and jokes not understood by anyone but them. Throughout the weekends, only the time spent on throwing the bike from one corner to another and the taste of champagne could’ve topped that. 

Now, he wishes for it to be over before it even starts.

He sticks a hand in the pocket of his shorts, fingers wrapping around the cardboard packet. At one point he almost quit the cancerous sticks, because, as quoted, _it’s not good for you, I want you fully fit on the track, so I can beat you fair and square jajaja,_ the words a joke, but their tone not.

_I saw just how much you cared about me in Argentina._

It takes three flicks of the lighter before the nicotine enters his lungs, the familiar scratch in his throat tranquillizing his nerves for a moment. His forehead creases when the smell reaches his nose, eyebrows pulling together, but it’s not enough for him to crush the stub he’s twirling between the fingers, the ashes falling off burning a small hole in his shirt. 

“Fuck,” he curses, pulling the fabric over his head, limbs trembling after being hit by a gust of air. 

If it was possible, his mood gets even worse. 

He tries to occupy his mind and hands with something else, not think, but it never works, just like moving on from Marc doesn’t, either. The weight in his stomach, appearing each time before he shuts the door and directs his steps to the press room, is something he’s grown so used to, something he treats as normal, a part of the weekly routine.

The disappointment he started to associate with Marc is now a part of the weekends, too. 

And maybe, most likely, he’d have got over it, after time would’ve cooled the burning wounds he was left with, salvaging whatever it was between them. But that _I learned that from you_ Marc hissed at him, the intent clear, still rings in his ears loudly, and that’s something time cannot be a cure for. To be quoted as an inspiration for such dangerous moves when _he, Colin, Marco, when his world stopped and hasn’t been the same ever since..._

The briefest memory of that day has him feeling dizzy, the dark spots flying in front of his eyes, the room spinning around even though he’s motionless, sitting petrified. The sweat drops are slowly running down his temples, an anomaly when confronted with the shudders shaking his body, and it’s only his experience, the fact that he’s had to deal with _this_ a few times before, that he manages to calm himself before the panic starts. 

After Marc’s words the walls were rebuilt in an instant, high, higher than before, hopefully this time guarding him better, not letting Marc slip through them. And this time, he’s definitely not lowering them on his own, like he did after that first time. 

The blows he received up until this point were enough. 

There are some instances in which he regrets leaving his signature below that _for season 2019 and 2020,_ moments when he wonders if it wasn’t an error, a miscalculation on his part. The promises of _it’ll be better this year_ lulling him into a false sense of security, where no history repeats itself, and the reality quickly proving him wrong with a replay of 2015, courtesy of Marc, and one of 2017, provided by the bike. 

Maybe those telling him he was too old were right, after all. 

The fumes scratch at his throat when he takes a drag from the half-smoked cigarette, his last from the packet. The disgust almost prevents him from getting up and leaving the safety of his motorhome to become the prey for those searching for a scandal, looking for a controversy, wanting him to play the main part in it when all he wants to do is ride. 

He crushes the stub, some of the ashes landing on the floor. 

The clouds cover the whole sky, moving slowly, similar to him, but it doesn’t stop him from hiding behind the tinted lenses placed on his nose, acting as a barrier between him and the world. He drags the feet on the ground, the soles of his shoes barely lifted in the air with each step, hands stuffed deeply in the pockets. 

Finally, inside he rests his back against the chair, _next to him,_ the arms folding in front of his chest automatically, as it they’d magically protect him from whatever it is that awaits for him in the form of baits coated in polite words. 

Valentino doesn’t allow his eyes to follow Marc, he can’t, because he knows well it would cause his resolve to break, cracks to form in the walls he oh so carefully built around his heart. 

He makes that mistake only once, and the look he gets in return haunts him both when awake and asleep, the reproach and _betrayal_ burnt in his mind. 

It’s become a mantra, telling himself not to fall for it again, not believe the words, nor those eyes he’s still weak against. And his jaw clenches automatically, teeth pressed against each other tightly, because he wants, _craves_ to free himself from Marc, from the history they’ve shared on and _(mostly)_ off track, yet it is something he cannot do. 

When all the mics are off again and the room begins to empty, his fingers are wrapped around the lighter again, feet moving fast towards the exit. 

*

Back in the motorhome, Francesca tells him not to wait for her. Surely, she’s going to spend the night with her girl, _l’ombrellina_ for one of the Moto3 teams, but he never remembers which one. He waves at her, suppressing the request his mind has already formed, but the lips haven’t yet, for her to keep him company, to share some words that could’ve made him feel a bit better. Like she’s done multiple times before. 

At times, he questions the sense behind the agreement they’ve signed, its purpose and actual value, aside from keeping up the _playboy millionaire…_ image he has. But then she turns into this, a support he didn’t know he needed. 

He never tells her about Marc, but she guesses easily, asking but not judging. And he may be way more transparent than he’s thought. Perhaps he shouldn’t, perhaps it’s putting too much trust in her, the trust he didn’t dare to give even to Uccio, but the words spill from his mouth uncontrollably, not stopping until he’s let everything out. 

To the media she was supposed to be his other half, but somehow, instead, he acquired a friend. 

She tries, _maybe give him another chance?_ a common occurrence in their conversations, but he’s not breaking the promise he made to himself. No more. 

Normally, he’s doing well at brushing it off, distracting her and switching the topic. He became pretty good at it. Except on days like this one, after another media encounter, he wishes she’d play the main role in his dreams, replacing the shorter silhouette and darker eyes, he wishes that he could lose his head and heart for someone like her. 

But that would require regaining them first and, it seems, Marc’s not giving them up easily. 

*

Like he’s done multiple times before, Uccio comes in uninvited, and Valentino doesn’t have the strength to ask if no one taught him how to knock before. 

He tries to keep the dinner down, and he’d like to name the food as the reason of the queasiness, not _him,_ but it would be missing the truth; the lies don’t fall from his lips as easily as they probably should after so many seasons spent on attempts to hide the remains of his privacy from those sticking their noses into his business.

“I saw that fucker puking his guts out behind a stack of tyres,” Uccio says, humming along to the tune that’s currently playing in the radio. 

Valentino has no interest in imagining the scene as the dull ache is spreading from his temples to the rest of his head, but he takes part in the conversation, if only to get it over with faster. “Who?”

He’s _this_ close to telling Uccio to shut his mouth, a few minutes of silence seemingly an unachievable dream, something he isn’t able to reach. The earplugs are kept in the garage, sadly, as he’d gladly push them in his ears to tune the talking out. Too many voices, too many words to endure in one day, and yet only one person’s quotes are stuck on repeat in his mind, nestling there. 

“Who, who?” Uccio mocks, rolling his eyes, “Marquez, of course.” 

There’s a disgust to Uccio’s words Valentino can almost taste, bitterness rolling off his tongue with each letter. 

It’s an involuntary response, his eyebrows shooting up, breath stopping mid-inhale, losing the grip on the cigarette and letting it descend on the ground. Quickly, he picks it up, dully noting the newly-formed stain on the ground, but not really seeing it, eyes unfocused, staring through Uccio rather than at him. 

The song comes to an end, current news sounding through the speakers, when Uccio covers the distance to sit on his left side. “Maybe it finally got to him.”

Valentino doesn’t know what _it_ is, but he can recognize the satisfaction spicing the words, salt and venom making up the taste. Unlike in Uccio’s case, it’s never been to his liking, his range of emotions having anything to do with Marc consisting of other sentiments. It’s no different this time, a smile nowhere to be found on his face, mouth currently a thin line, the heaviness in his chest something he wants to associate with the cigarettes, lying to himself, well aware it’s not a true reason behind it. 

Instead of feeling joy and meeting Uccio’s expectations, he’s too preoccupied with squashing the concern for _him,_ trying to resurface against his will. 

_I’m not doing this to myself again._

It’s what he desperately wants to believe in, but he’s never had much faith to begin with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go with Vale's point of view. Marc isn't the only troubled one, but in the end they want entirely different things...  
> I'd love to know what you guys think now that there are two sides of the story, if perhaps your opinion on Vale's actions changed when compared to the first chapter?
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


	3. Chapter 3

Of course Alex finds out. How foolish it was of him to think that his condition wouldn’t see the daylight, how naïve. 

It’s when he’s wheezing, bent over the toilet bowl once again and trying to get the familiar petals out, that Alex finds him, the broken lock of the bathroom door the reason behind it all. His warnings, _leave now,_ don’t have any effect, his little brother stupidly stubborn in trying to help, and Marc can’t hold it in anymore. 

The flower vanishes in the whirl of flushed water, disappearing in the pipes as the lid falls over the toilet, and he rises from the knees, Alex’s arm around his shoulders.

The relief is temporary, his chest feeling better but stomach squeezed even tighter than before, this time not from the illness but rather from the prospect of having to explain why his body is in the current state. He considers lying, missing the truth by a bit and taking the easy way out. Better, in his opinion. 

One glance at Alex tells him all the efforts will be in vain.

He still tries, if only for the sake of buying himself some more time, a few more moments. Order thoughts into something from the scattered mess they currently are. 

Alex drags him over to the bed, the blanket wrapped over their shoulders, as Marc tries to swallow the lump in his throat, the bitterness that has a permanent place in his mouth now. The nausea doesn’t stop, it hardly ever does these days, but at least it’s milder. Bearable. 

The heating is on, but his hands have lost all the warmth; sticking them in the pockets of his hoodie helps with that but also prevents him from tearing at his cuticles, most of them already bloody and painful. Alex is silent, waiting, but it isn’t hard to guess the questions are barely restrained, so many of them to be asked.

So Marc describes the events, the symptoms, the diagnosis and how he found out. How his feelings are trying to suffocate him and there’s no exaggeration in that statement at all. He needs to take a few breaks, a cough, a breath, another. Bitten lip to add to the bitten nails. Broken skin along with the broken heart. 

He purposefully omits both the names and the specific dates. There’s this hope he has, that Alex won’t prod, won’t give it a second thought, that turns out to be short-lived, shorter than he expected. Another foolishness on his part, as Alex is quick to connect the dots and fit the pieces together. 

The more he says, the more Alex’s eyes widen, face turning paler and paler. It gets to the point where Alex looks almost green, greener than Marc usually is when he’s gripping the toilet bowl tightly. 

Alex pulls him closer, his voice as wet as Marc’s. “God, Marc. I’m so sorry.”

In a second, Marc’s buried in Alex’s arms, holding him tightly, and he doesn’t even dream of breaking free. Safe. It feels safe, unlike the past months of his life have. 

He allows his head to rest on Alex’s shoulder, wet patches forming where his face is pressed to the fabric of Alex’s shirt, all the pressure being released in a fit of coughing and trembling. There’s no doubt the embarrassment will hit him sooner or later, but for now, this is good. The hand sliding over his hair is enough to stop the tremors after a few minutes, and he hates being like this, privately broken behind the public smiles, but the awareness of how much he needed this hasn’t hit until now.

“Thanks,” he says when the stinging in his eyes fades away and the trails on his face have dried down. 

Alex’s hand moves to his shoulder and remains there even after Alex turns to look at him properly. “I wish you had told me earlier. So you wouldn’t have had to endure this on your own.” 

There is concern but also pity present in the way Alex’s eyes roam over his face, as if trying to grab more information than Marc shared verbally. 

Now, it’s guilt twisting Marc’s guts, squeezing them and wringing. He probably should’ve. And he certainly would’ve liked for Alex to tell him, had their places been switched. But he couldn’t. He simply couldn’t. 

Marc rests his head against the wall, his breathing regular again now. “I didn’t want you to see me this pathetic,” he admits, quietly enough that he hopes Alex doesn’t catch up on it.

No such luck.

Alex puffs his cheeks before letting the air out. It’s exasperation or maybe exhaustion that his brother excludes, Marc isn’t sure which one. He knows, though, that he doesn’t like it one bit. 

“You’re not pathetic, for fuck’s sake. It’s all his fault,” Alex spits, each word carrying anger that isn’t hidden in any way. 

And Marc almost chuckles without any humour, as he’s ready to jump to Valentino’s defence even now, even when his clogging lungs can only be attributed to the man who still refuses to leave his dreams and thoughts. 

Pathetic. No matter what Alex says, he is. 

The memories, those are good. They help. Whether it’s just the placebo effect or an actual thing, it’s hard to tell, but whenever he lets the images from the past flood his mind, the pressure is weaker, the air easier to breathe. The coughing fits last shorter. And he may be deluding himself, tricking himself, but the temptation to relive those happy moments again is too strong.

_If only I could turn back the time._

For a moment their shoulders are pressed against each other, the only sounds reaching him the beat of his own heart and the ticking of that clock he swore to throw out but never did. The words aren’t exchanged but the presence next to him, the reassurance Alex brings with himself tricks his mind into thinking _it’s not so bad,_ even if only for a little while.

And he’s rarely lost for words, but in that moment Marc can hardly express his gratefulness better than squeezing Alex’s shoulders, his salty lips parting in a meek smile. 

“What now?” Alex asks. 

_What do you mean “what now”?_

Marc doesn’t get it. 

The possible cures is not something he avoided mentioning when the dam broke and he released all his thoughts, all the information he managed to acquire, so one of his eyebrows rises at Alex’s question, not understanding. “What?”

Alex crosses his legs and leans, their faces now on even level. “What are you going to do with the illness?”

Marc considers the question for a moment, skimming over the possible options. Or rather the only option, as he can see only one possibility, one solution. 

“Ride the rest of the season normally.” He shrugs. What else is he supposed to do?

The familiar tingling begins in his throat and Marc’s aware that another attack is incoming, will start any moment, so he opens his mouth in an attempt to catch as much air as possible before his body refuses to function how it should once again. 

“You’re going to tell him?”

“What? No, obviously not.” What the hell made Alex think of something so ridiculous, the consequences of that action not something he’d want to endure, even in his imagination. “He hates me.”

There’s no doubt about it. 

Saying it out loud prompts a series of somersaults in his belly that are closer to sharp rocks rather than butterflies. He tried to come to terms with it, get over it, forget, but the mere thought brings him pain, his own feelings are on the opposite side of the spectrum. 

Alex grabs one of his Marc’s hand, squeezing it. “You should,” he breathes out, “Marc, maybe he’d change his mind?”

Marc snorts and there’s no amusement in it at all. “Do you believe in what you’re saying?” He more dares than actually asks, not having to hear it to know what the response would be. Alex’s silence is answer enough. “Thought so.”

“Just try,” Alex begs, and now his eyes are welling up, the electric light emphasizing the glistening in their corners. The tears will spill any moment, like Marc’s own did earlier, and Marc hates it, hates himself for doing this to Alex, but most of all for ending up in this situation in the first place. 

The guilt grows stronger with every second. “I’m sorry.” 

_I can’t. I simply can’t._

There’s no point in trying when he knows what the reaction would be. He’s learnt that already, Valentino’s expression when he, finally, after months of talking himself into it, made that peace offering, told it all. 

The voice answering him is small, muted. “What are you going to do, then?”

The blanket falls from his shoulders and the coldness is there again, only this time Marc takes no action, letting it hit his body. If he could, he’d have taken a deep exhale as what’s coming next won’t go through his lips easily. But well. He already made the decision, the best the circumstances allow for. His fingers wrap tighter around Alex’s again, and he wishes he could’ve kept it all for himself for a bit longer, but there’s no denying Alex deserves to know. 

“Get the surgery after the season.” 

It’s not like he has any other options left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the angst continues... But at least Marc isn't alone in this anymore. It's something?
> 
> This isn't edited properly since I've been ill for the past few days and didn't have the strength to do it. Sorry! If you find a typo or some weird sentence, please let me know so I can correct it later.
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


	4. Chapter 4

Valentino doesn’t know what comes over him in Sepang. 

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s this place, bringing up the memories he desperately tries to bury, but never succeeds. Maybe it’s the lingering disappointment from Australia, trailing behind him and altering his mood, the bitter taste still present. Or maybe it’s something entirely else, but Valentino can’t really put a name on it.

He always feels off in Malaysia, but this year it’s different than usual. 

When that incident in fp4 happens, he knows it’s his fault. There’s no questioning it. And he’s certainly aware of the number on that bike, that it doesn’t belong to Dani. But still, Valentino raises a hand, _I’m sorry,_ because that’s what he should do, that’s what he’s supposed to do. Common courtesy, he tries to reason, that’s why he makes that gesture towards Marc. That there’s nothing more than that.

He refuses to let that thought of _something could’ve happened_ in, but it manages to sneak its way into his mind, either way. 

What happens later is not something he can blame on good manners only. 

They both made it to the front row, so it’s nothing surprising that they’re standing next to each while the camera flashes temporarily blind them with the excessive light. All the MotoGP news sites need their photos, so he smiles, even though he doesn’t know who at. 

Valentino blinks, trying to regain the focus of his vision, currently a bit blurry. He squints, for once not particularly bothered by it. It feels good, receiving the attention for good results. Not something he gets to do often lately.

With the corner of his eye, he notices how Marc shifts weight from one foot to the other, how he takes the Michelin cap off, only to put it back on again. Marc’s sight is fixed on some point in the distance, somewhere in the crowd probably, and Valentino follows the lines of Marc’s face, down the lips and to the pointed chin. He doesn’t know what he is looking for. 

( _Reassurance that everything is alright_ is a thought he tries to block, unsuccessfully.)

The leathers are clinging to his body, a drop of sweat dripping from his hair. That’s what he blames the discomfort on, the heat and the humidity, feeling even more sticky than usually. He runs a hand down his face, then wiping it on his leg, wishing he hadn’t left the towel back in the box. They could’ve been standing like that for a minute, or maybe five. It’s hard to tell. But he’s fidgety and briefly, he even considers sitting down on the ground, resting his back against the carboard wall and forgetting where he actually is. 

With the next action, Valentino surprises even himself. 

It could be Uccio’s words, those about Marc being bent over, the sickness shaking his body, that prompt him to open his mouth first, to start the conversation. He hasn’t planned to do it. The words are not prepared, he hasn’t thought about that, what he should say. It’s an impulse. 

“I’m sorry for that incident in free practice,” he finds himself apologizing again. 

His fingers are flexing, fist clenching and unclenching, the tension he can sense in the air also present in his body. It’s the first time they acknowledge each other after Argentina. Or rather he acknowledges Marc. And this time it’s different than two years ago, back in Barcelona. More personal. Less for the public and more for him. For them. 

Marc turns, and for a moment he looks as if he’s trying to find confirmation that yes, the words were directed at him. The eyes darting all over Valentino’s face imply that. He coughs, and there’s a little alarm going off in Valentino’s head, a sign he thinks means nothing, yet a one he picks up.

“It’s fine,” Marc finally croaks out. His smile is faint, unsure. “Nothing happened.”

His attempt at concealing the surprise fails, not deceiving Valentino, who almost laughs. That small twitch of Marc’s brow, that gulp, they’re all familiar. Valentino’s seen them enough times to know. 

He can’t shake off that feeling that something is off, _something is wrong,_ what he’s seeing and what Uccio told him before making pieces of a puzzle he can’t solve. And it bothers him more than it probably should. Certainly more than he’d like. Because he’s almost sure that caring for Marc will end up with scratching the old wounds open again, reviving everything he’s been trying to erase.

“Still, sorry,” he says, either way. 

He is. And he cannot think of a better topic at the moment, a stark contrast to those times when they could hardly manage to say everything they wanted, the busy schedules standing in their way. 

It’s not something he does purposefully. There’s not conscious intent in the way his eyes scan Marc’s face during their conversation, if it can even be called that, the words leaving Marc’s lips reaching him, but not fully.

It’s rather obvious that the lines under Marc’s are both darker and deeper than the last time Valentino saw them up close, many months ago. And he honestly fails to understand _why,_ because it’s not like Marc has any worries for this season left, the title already sealed, yet another one to add to the rapidly growing collection. So it can’t be that. Nothing riding related, it seems.

_Personal, then?_

That would be an explanation. Maybe there is someone occupying Marc’s thoughts. It’s not like Valentino would know. Maybe that’s the reason Marc seems to have less life to him than Valentino remembers. It probably isn’t anything important, and definitely not his business, but Marc looks tired, Valentino thinks. 

However, the nagging thoughts, Uccio’s amusement at seeing Marc bent over in sickness behind some tyres, they never leave. And Valentino’s attempts at quieting them down are fruitless, as they act like a boomerang, always coming back. 

“It’s okay,” Marc says, the breath he takes deeper than normal, even though they’ve long calmed down after quali. “Thanks, Vale.” 

The concern Valentino’s been trying to squash fills his mind again, and he cannot help noticing the little changes to Marc’s behaviour, to what he remembers Marc used to be like. It shouldn’t be his worry. Whatever it was between then _(Was there anything?)_ is a part of the past, not coming back. 

Yet, he hasn’t been able to move on; it doesn’t look like he will in the near future, Marc holding him back without even being aware of it.

It’s supposed to be a comforting gesture, that little touch that happens without Valentino really thinking it through, but it surprises him, just how startled Marc looks the moment Valentino reaches for his arm. 

He cannot stop that _it used to be so normal before_ that sneaks into his mind, annoying and insistent. 

There was a time when he couldn’t imagine hostile words and avoiding each other’s eyes becoming their normal. And now this, exchanging a few sentences, not even private, all riding-related, is something out of the norm. 

The question makes it past Valentino’s lips before he can realise it might cross the professional boundaries, reaching the private territory. “Are you okay?” 

His inquiry about Marc’s wellbeing is genuine. And it scares him.

There’s this _deer caught in the headlights_ expression flashing on Marc’s face that’s much more common on baby Marquez, that rises Valentino’s suspicions again. He could swear there are red flags everywhere, big and bright enough that he couldn’t not notice them. At the same time, he knows that he has no right to do anything. He lost that right. Marc made him lose it. 

“Yeah.” Marc gulps, blinking a few times. “All fine.” 

He smiles after biting down on his bottom lip, and Valentino reminisces the times when he didn’t associate the gesture with Marc being nervous. When it had an entirely different effect on him than it does now. 

_That doesn’t sound honest._

Valentino doesn’t pry because really, it isn’t his place to do it. There’s a simple nod of acknowledgement, letting Marc know the words reached him, but nothing more. They don’t get to say much more, either way, as they arrive at the press conference, the cameras and voice recorders already pointed at them. 

Before they come in, Valentino risks one last quick glance.

When Marc smiles at him, hesitant, slightly shy, all that anger Valentino’s been harbouring up until now evaporates, turning into dust. During the conference, he’s both oddly content, a rare occurrence these days, and simultaneously nervous. He knows it’s not the front row on the grid that’s the reason behind that.

And then, just like that, they go back to being normal. Or as normal as they can be, with the past never fully forgotten, but for now, it’s enough for him. The race is an even more bitter pill to swallow than Australia was, because he was _so_ close, but in Valencia, he shows up determined. That little laugh he shares with Marc during the press conference feels like the most natural thing, somehow not forced, somehow nothing strange about it.

When they meet at the gala, on the stage this year again, Valentino’s hands move on their own to form the applause that is fully deserved, his lips stretching in a smile that is nothing but genuine. He’s both tired and relieved, that in the end he managed to snatch that third from Maverick, the only good thing about the season. But there’s no denying that the real star is Marc, and Valentino’s almost managed to forget about Argentina, too. Now that he looks at his whole season, he’s aware that it wouldn’t have changed a thing.

He finds Marc at the afterparty, hanging around one of the tables filled with obnoxiously expensive food that hardly anyone ever eats. He tries to make it casual, like he was just passing by, not looking for a short silhouette with black hair on purpose. 

Marc beams at him, and Valentino doesn’t remember his mouth being this dry a minute ago. He snatches a glass of champagne, letting the drink pass through his throat, before rising it up once again, this time celebratory. “Cheers to you.” 

They don’t talk for long, only a few minutes of meaningless chat. But while there’s nothing of that resentment he felt before left, that slight uneasiness is something Valentino can never fully shake off. Marc might be smiling, but his skin still has that grayish tint to it, and the circles under his eyes are a deep purple shade. 

Valentino disregards it, or at least tries to, as he can see Uccio approaching, the frown on his friend’s face visible even from the distance.

“I need to go,” he tells Marc, catching himself on almost adding _already_ to the sentence. 

Marc pats him on the shoulder as a goodbye, the hand feeling warm even through layers of clothing, and Valentino’s well aware that the funny feeling in his stomach isn’t a result of stress, neither nervousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are looking a bit better for them, it seems? I have to say, I had to change my plans a bit since I didn't expect them to make up this year. Hopefully it works out this way, too.
> 
> I'm sorry for being inactive lately! I've had a bit of a writer's block and I've been struggling, and life gets in the way, too. But I plan on finishing this fic, before the winter break ends, if all goes well. 
> 
> Thank you for reading <3

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at 4693words.tumblr.com


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